


Endlessly

by NotLaura



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Second Person, not DA2 or DAI compliant, written pre-awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotLaura/pseuds/NotLaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years since The Blight was driven back, and you have not returned to Denerim. Until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

It's familiar, this road you find yourself on. The same as was the last time you traveled it. The same dirt under your boots, the same pebbles and rocks and paths that once held you as you fled now crunch beneath each step as you approach anew.

Truthfully, you know that it's vaguely ridiculous that you have not returned. It's been five years since the Archdemon, five years since you drove back The Blight. Five years as the head of the Grey Warden's of Ferelden and not once have you returned to her capital city? Preposterous though the idea may be, the truth of it is undeniable.

It had not started out intentional. At least, that's what you tell yourself. You weren't avoiding the city; it just didn't make sense to leave on errands when you were needed elsewhere. Your new position lent itself to having others who could act as messengers; you needed to focus on rebuilding. That excuse had held up for the better part of five years. You had to travel to Orlais and meet with the Grey Wardens there, learn of The Joining and what you needed to arrange. Then you had to return to the Circle of Magi, develop the contacts necessary to ensure you could put your new recruits through the ceremony. After that, you needed recruits, and those recruits needed to go to the Deep Roads and obtain the blood necessary... yes, you did not have the time for direct correspondence with Denerim.

With the King.

You've taken to thinking of him that way, not that refusing his name makes it any easier to bear. The King. Ruler of Ferelden. Anything other than his name and you can keep yourself in check, at least a little bit. The moment you allow yourself to consider him any other way... that is when it's too hard.

Sometimes you're not even sure what you're most upset about. How he ended things? When he ended things? Where he ended things? That he ended things at all? That there was something to end at all? In your weakest moments you know he's broken your heart and you hate him for taking the glory out of what should be your happy ending. The question remains though, did he really? You think of your parents, of Oriana and Oren, of everyone you've lost and you wonder how it is the loss of him feels more painful when he's still out there, not lost to you in the way of the others.

In your strongest moments you remind yourself that he is still alive. You both are. The Blight was stopped, the Archdemon slain, Ferelden free. Your own happiness is a valid sacrifice when leveraged against those results.

It is hardest when you camp. The moonlight, the crackle of a campfire, the smells of the woods. These are the things that bring everything back and you restlessly watch the embers fade into the night, unable to sleep peacefully and unwilling to consider the thoughts that run rampant in your mind. Camp brings back memories of easy banter, of conversations that lighten an impossibly dark situation. Of shy gifts and awkward declarations and an intimacy that happened so effortlessly you weren't even aware of your own feelings until you were telling him of them.

Having faith in him had been so simple you didn't even spare a thought at the possibility you should act any other way. You had not gone to the Landsmeet with any thought of a different course of action. Of course you would support him for king. Regardless of birthright or parentage something deep down just knew he was the right choice. The only choice.

Nothing had prepared you for the aftermath. In the midst of everything, with the uncertainty of any future, let alone your own, the thought of children or family or heirs had not entered your mind. Scarce hours after supporting him, after changing everything, and he was standing there before all of your ragtag group of friends and ending things because of a hypothetical impossibility.

At your most vindictive, you wish you could have slapped him. Anything would have been more dignified than your shock as he shattered your heart for all to see. As quickly as he had started the conversation he was gone. Off to collect his thoughts, he said. Yet you were not afforded the luxury. He may have been declared king, but you were still in charge of defeating The Blight. You had decisions to make and could not just appoint Arl Eamon to do them for you until you were ready. He left and you had to continue on, pretending you were okay enough to lead, pretending you could feel anything other than the cold sting of betrayal.

So you endured. What other option had there been? You endured, pressed on, and met his eyes with a grim determination to finish what you had set out to do. You fought by his side to the heights of Fort Drakon and together you defeated The Blight.

It's almost ironic, you suppose. Without what he had done, without it being over between you, Morrigan's offer would never have even been a possibility. Would you have even presented it to him? You don't think so. Selfishness and a need to keep him to yourself would have won over and you do not let your thoughts wander to how you might have spent that last night together.

So instead, you spent that night alone, crying your only tears over him while he took Morrigan to bed. When the morning came, you had locked everything inside and prepared to fight for your life and the lives of everyone in Ferelden.

And then you carried on. Avoiding Denerim had not been so much a plan as a happy coincidence. Five years since his coronation and you had not returned. You had not spoken with him, you had not cried over him. The thoughts were fleeting, unbidden, and did not count.

That will make this easier, you try and tell yourself. Denerim is getting closer and you can't avoid it this time. A banquet to celebrate the fifth anniversary of pushing back The Blight requires the head of the Grey Wardens, the hero of the battle who slayed the Archdemon and survived to tell the tale.

You only hope you can survive this event.


	2. HEAT

Arrival had gone smoothly, at least by your measurement. Since by that system, smoothly is determined by whether or not you avoided _The King_ it could not have been better. Arriving just scant hours before the ball instead of the day before, as beckoned? Brilliant. Ducking off to your guest room as soon as you'd gotten there with a half-formed excuse that you needed to "prepare"? Equally brilliant.

Lying on the bed staring up at the ceiling ready to go long before you needed to? Not so much.

You sigh, wondering idly what your mother would say if she saw you now, dressed in a gown finer than anything you'd ever seen at court in Highever, lying in a guest room of the royal palace. It feels strange to be put together in such a way, like you're revisiting something from so long ago it barely bears mentioning. This life at court, this world of nobles and grace and manners and custom... once, it had been ingrained in you. Now it just feels foreign and you half wish a Genlock would crash the party so you can behead it and feel at home.

It is strange to consider this shift in yourself. Who you are, where you came from, that origin shaped you and cast you out all at once. You cannot feel at home at court even with your years of experience and training, yet you would not have built the Wardens as quickly as you have without it. Singlehandedly you pulled an order together in Ferelden that you feel confident Duncan would have praised.

A difficult task for one unwilling to associate with The King.

You heave a sigh, the air feeling heavy in your lungs. You'll have to face him tonight, that much is certain. You will face him and smile at him and speak of the glory you found together, of the country you love. Your broken heart will not be obvious and you will make it through the night.

It's a mantra you've been repeating since the day you realized you would have to come to this event.

There's a vague sense of desperation to those words as they go through your mind. It is as though you cling to them to keep yourself afloat.

You do not allow yourself to think on other things. It does not matter that he has not yet married, he is still learning to govern. It does not matter that you've been away on other business every time Grey Warden presence was required in Denerim. It does not matter that the basket in your room is filled with roses or that you're too muscular to fill out a dress the way you once did. None of these are relevant, all that matters is breathing deeply and coming across calm. Confident. Strong.

You are the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. You defeated the Blight and slayed the Archdemon. You freed the people of your land from the threat of Darkspawn and it is for that you are honoured.

Your strength got you here and your strength will get you through.

You hear footsteps in the hallway, servants rushing about. It is almost time to go downstairs and you repeat your mantra to yourself again. Strength. You are strong.

Your legs disagree, feeling scarcely able to hold your weight as you pull yourself off the bed.

One foot in front of the other and you study your reflection in the mirror. Harder than you were, once. The girl thrust into leadership is now the woman who commands obedience. Gone are tentative decisions, terror over making the wrong choice and in their place stands a confident tactician, a capable politician.

You wear the clothes of your childhood life and the face of your hardened adulthood, prepared to see the man who left you somewhere in between.

You are pleasantly surprised by the time the dinner has ended. Things have not been as horrible as you had imagined. The startling lurch in your stomach (not your heart, never) at the first sight of him had gone unnoticed by anyone else, all attention on the entrance of The King.

Realistically, you had known he would not look exactly the same. You had seen paintings, of course. Artists were eager to capture the first years of his rule, exploiting his publicity with the common people for badly rendered attempts to capture him with paints and ink. This had been different, though. This realness of his presence as he entered the banquet hall. For all that you have become harder in your years, it was almost as though the opposite were true in him.

He was still a warrior, that was evident in his every step, his build, his hands. No, he had not gone softer in body. Instead, it was as though all of his roughness was being polished away. His smiles were not as wide, his eyes more guarded than you recalled. Perhaps soft was the wrong comparison? Smooth, then. He was smoother than the awkward man who had once shared your tent.

You try not to watch him, as he gives a speech that closes the meal. Your smile is warm and practiced as you murmur to the gathered Arls and Teyrns of Ferelden. You speak of the Grey Wardens with pride, their upcoming activities and plans. The work you have done to strengthen relations between the wardens in Orlais. So intent on keeping that distance are you that his announcement goes unnoticed, at first.

It is only when you realize conversation has dropped in the hall that you feel all eyes on you.

A blink, and you scan the parted crowd, realizing The King approaches you directly. Your chin raises, just slightly, but your careful expression does not falter.

"A dance, dear lady." Has his voice gotten deeper? Maybe it is just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. "To begin the celebration."

His hand is extended to you.

Your pause is momentary, caught by no one else, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. "Of course, Your Majesty." And you place your hand in his, hoping your tone sounded as clear and calm as you intended.

You may have gotten through first seeing him without incident, but the feeling of his hand is nearly your undoing.

As if a wave rushing towards the shore, you are flooded in memory. His hand, not clothed in glove or gauntlet, feels warmer than the sun around your own and you recall the way this same hand once felt against your arm, your waist, your hips as you looked down at him. _All hands_ , as he had once confessed you made him feel, and this simple firmness of his clasping yours is bringing back each time in your tent; each time in his. Free of plate or splint or chainmail, his hands on your body, on your face and it's all you can do to walk steadily towards the center of the room.

You feel as though the entire country is watching as he expertly manoeuvres you into position to dance. When had he gotten so trained in the graces of court? Your grip on his hand changes as you fall into the steps you learned before you held a sword. His other hand is resting lightly at the small of your back and your pounding heart drowns out the music. Three steps and you realize what dance this is, why it comes so easily. This is a dance of the court at Highever, traditional but far from the most popular of court dances.

Coincidence, that is all.

Your eyes meet his once more and it is all you can do not to stumble. He stares at you with such warmth, such feeling and you all but panic, thinking you've conjured this face from your memories and maybe you are not as sane as you had thought?

Yet, a moments study and you realize that, no, this is not that face from years before. His eyes still reveal too much, but the rest of him is different. You focus on these differences like they are water to your parched body.

His face is smoother, that is the first thing. While shadow hints about his jaw, it is clearly an expert hand that shaved it. You suppose it makes sense, he is hardly shaving with a spare dagger using a reflection cast onto his shield by campfire. Yes, gone is the rough stubble that had felt so strange and so welcome scraping against your neck, your collarbone, your breasts...

You move on to another feature.

His shoulders seem smaller, as though he is less broad. The fingers of the hand he does not grasp within his own rest on fine fabrics, not heavy armor. Yet, no, his shoulders are no less muscled than they had been before. You are merely unaccustomed to seeing him outside of armor, wearing the finery of The King.

The King.

Your eyes draw upward, to the crown atop his head. It looks perfect there. Maddeningly, his hair still stands up at the front but somehow that serves to highlight the crown even more. It is as though he was born to wear it.

Your stomach lurches and you hear your own voice in your ears. The confidence with which you had spoken of him to The Landsmeet, your conviction as you told them all, many in this room right now, that he should be their king. The crown atop his head is your doing, perhaps more than his own. You had given that push, you had stepped up when he could not, would not, and then...

You bring your eyes down from the crown, unable to look at his once more yet unsure where your gaze should fall. Resolutely, you focus on the room spinning behind him as he leads you so easily through the dance. You focus on the music, on counting the bars until it ends. His hand seems as though it is burning your own and you can feel the heat of his touch through the fabric of your dress as clearly as if you were naked.

And so you count.

It is all you can do to curtsey politely before him when the music ends, all you can manage not to yank your hand away when he brings it to his lips in thanks.

The strength you cling to barely keeps you from running back into the crowd as they applaud and you hope no one notices your sudden departure as they all join in the dancing.

Vainly, you wish your friends were there. You long to hear Leliana's musical voice or even Oghren's drunken laughter. Anything to remind you that something exists other than him, and you, and what you had been. But no, none of them are there. For all the part they played, for all that Ferelden would not stand without them, you are the only one at this banquet. You are the noble, you are the one with a place at court and no Orlesian bard, Dwarven drunkard or Elf from Antiva have a place in this courtly hell you find yourself in.

Your desperate search for the air in your lungs draws you outside onto a balcony. The city of Denerim lies below you and you want to rip off this dress, don your armor, and vanish into the night.

That dance, his hand holding yours, his eyes... Too much, it had all been too much and you are out of strength. You know you must regroup, must return to the banquet before anyone notices, before anyone talks. You are the leader of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, not The King`s former lover. One or the other, not both.

The night air fills your lungs and you think you can hear distant sounds of the city below breaking through the pounding of your heart. Just a few more minutes and you will return, your strength replenished.

From behind you, his voice says your name.

The air is gone from your lungs again and you beg the Maker your ears deceive you.


	3. COLD

The cold air that had been such a balm to your lungs suddenly feels stifling, and you feel light-headed as you turn around. What can you possibly say to him now? What could he possibly have to say to you? No, you can't.

"Are you all right?"

But that is not his voice.

Curiosity makes you turn, you know this voice but beyond knowing it does not belong to _him_ , you cannot place it.

Concerned, Bann Teagan looks at you from the doorway. Arl Teagan now, you suppose.

"I'm fine." You assure him and this time your smile is genuine, if tired.

He nods, concern is still evident on his face but he relaxes slightly as he leaves the doorway to join you on the balcony. "I was glad to see you had come, dear lady."

The same words, but a different voice and you feel your heart lurch once more. Teagan, always such a nice man. He stood for the people of Redcliffe village, putting them above his own life. He went back to the castle with Arlessa Isolde regardless of the danger to his own life. Gallant and courageous, but in the most quiet and unassuming way.

And now, he stands before you, worry still etched on his features.

"I hadn't dreamed you would make an appearance."

"It's hard to avoid a banquet being held in one's own honour." Your voice sounds clear, almost teasing, and you thank the maker for this reprieve from the tightly coiled nerves of earlier.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Yet not impossible."

Your wry smile feels foreign on your face. "I could still leave, I suppose."

Teagan motions to the city below you. "Preparing to scale the castle walls?"

"Considering it. I'm not as limber as I used to be."

"A pity." He smiles, giving your shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Perhaps instead I could request your presence on my arm? A man of my position should have a beautiful lady accompany him to a grand banquet."

"Perhaps." You find yourself entertaining the offer. You could go back in, laugh and dance with Teagan while The King watched on... But no, that would not be fair. Not to either of you.

"You should not be robbed of enjoying yourself because he cannot respect boundaries." Teagan's tone is harsher now and your eyes widen with surprise. "Forgive my candor, dear lady, but it was uncalled for to make a spectacle like that at the expense of your feelings."

Dear, sweet Teagan, so perceptive. You remember the days in Redcliffe, when things were so tentative and unsure and Teagan had taken one look at the two of you and known your heart. He was that sort of man, always aware of the feelings of others.

You feel your shoulders deflate slightly and you are a little overcome with gratitude that he is there, that he understands, that you are not alone in this.

"Thank-you" is all you say.

He extends his arm to you. "Please, let us return to the celebration. You did save the land, if you haven't forgotten, you deserve a party in your honour."

You hesitate only a moment to look down at Denerim once more. Tempting though flight may be, you know he is right, you have earned this enjoyment and ducking away into the night with your head down is not befitting of the woman you are. The King, the past, your heart and his, none of that should matter anymore. You are strong and powerful and not this weak-spirited woman his touch had reduced you to.

You take Teagan's outstretched arm and allow him to lead you back to the celebration.

It becomes easier, then. Easier to laugh, to joke, to mingle with the assembled nobility. You find yourself genuinely enjoying your time, almost unaware of how Teagan expertly keeps you both across the room from The King at all times. You feel as though a weight is lifted, as though Teagan is some sort of guardian sent by The Maker to keep your nerves at ease.

Occasionally, you can feel The King's eyes on you from across the room. His gaze burns as much as his touch had and you fight to quell the slight flush that creeps across your skin. Teagan rests a reassuring hand on your arm and you wonder how it is he just _knows_ what to do.

Improbable though you would have found the idea hours ago, you find yourself being escorted to your room late into the night. Come the morning you will be moving your things to The Arl of Redcliffe's estate, in the market district. At Teagan's insistence you will spend a few days in Denerim. For once, the city doesn't seem as terrifying as it had before.

With a warm smile and gracious thank-you to Teagan, he leaves you at your guest room. Idly, you half wish it would be possible to feel something other than warm friendship for him, but you know that part of you has been sealed away. It helps that he seems to know it too.

A surprising friend and ally in an unexpected place? Maybe this adventure is not so dissimilar from those that came before, after all.

The candles in the palace hallway shed no light into your room as you slip inside, ready to strip off the finery and collapse into bed. So tired, are you that you do not realize you have company until he speaks.

"Hello."

This time there is no mistaking the voice and your eyes adjust to the darkness to see him leaning against your bedpost, arms crossed.

The King.

Alistair.


	4. DROWN

You feel a little bit sick and a little bit like you've had too much to drink, and it's too much all at once and all you can manage to say is "Why?"

_Why are you here? Why did you leave me? Why have you not married? Why is this so hard? Why won't you leave me alone?_

Contradictions and confessions swirl around your mind and you almost miss his response.

"I wanted to see you. To talk to you." If his voice belies none of the awkward uncertainty of your previous time together, his face seems questioning.

You're still standing at the doorway, and for a brief second you think of brown hair and earnest words and you consider bolting out into the night to chase after Teagan. As quickly as the thought formed, it is gone when you realize Alistair is crossing the distance now, walking towards you.

His crown is gone from his head, but the absence of steel and plate and armour still highlights the difference. Desperately, your mind searches to remember if you'd ever seen him in normal clothes and all you can come up with are images of his skin in the darkness of your tent. You make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper when he comes to a stop just paces from you.

And then you realize he's been talking.

"I didn't know how to contact you, I just kept hoping you'd make your way here. Was I ever foolish..." He trails off, eyes searching your own for some sort of reaction.

Does he seek your blessing? A benediction upon his unclear intentions? That which you cannot offer in light of his pleading eyes and confusing expression?

"Your majesty is not a fool." You find yourself saying, your voice clear and calm and cultured and somewhere in the back of your mind you can _feel_ your mother's surge of pride and, Maker's breath, you can't think of her right now or your strength will falter.

It is his turn to make a noise as a strangled grunt comes out and his expression darkens. "Don't do that." His voice sounds clipped.

You have the upper hand and you grip onto it as tightly as any blade you've ever swung. You arch an eyebrow, regarding him with what you hope is an utter lack of amusement. "Surely your majesty does not need the likes of me to praise his leadership?" You ignore his flinch, pressing on because the words distance you from everything that you cannot bear to focus on. "If your highness would like The Grey Warden's opinion on his military decisions, I would be more than happy to discuss it with your advisors at a later date."

"I've been a Grey Warden longer than you have!" he exclaims, almost randomly and you would laugh at his bewildered expression if you weren't so terrified of breaking.

"True enough," You nod, your hands resting idly at your hips and you're not sure when you adopted such a defensive stance. "But you have other duties, so I am their leader."

"What..." He's still staring at you, wide-eyed and incredulous and you chalk up a victory at the fact he had not seemed to predict this behaviour. He licks his lips and tries again "Why are we talking about this?" his eyes search your own now, and you lack to strength to hold his gaze.

Looking away, you shrug and move past him, careful to avoid contact as you move further into your room. For a brief moment you consider the bed, but sitting there would be a recipe for unpleasant memories and you seat yourself carefully at the vanity.

"What else would Ferelden's king discuss with me?" Perhaps that had not been accompanied with the same measured calm as the rest of your words, but you are thankful your back is to him and you cannot see his face.

He curses then, coming to stand behind you.

"I'm not here as the king." He all but spits at you. "I am here to see my friend."

_Since when are we friends?_ You want to ask him. _You cannot break my heart and call me friend!_ You want to round on him and scream, maybe punch him in the face, and fury threatens to colour your cheeks so you do not turn around.

_Friends! How dare he?_

"I am very tired, your majesty." You speak lightly. "I would be happy to reminisce at a later date, perhaps next time I am in Denerim."

He snorts and you catch him folding his arms in the reflection of the vanity's mirror. "You'd have me wait another five years, then?"

Confident that your face has steadied, you rise from the chair to meet his gaze once more. He is taller than you, but not by much. The same smallness to his shoulders that you had noticed when you'd danced suddenly seems impossibly broad and had he been standing that close the entire time?

"Unless there is a pressing matter of state, I would beg your majesty leave so that I may retire." Just a few more words, you think. A few more biting references to his title and he will stop with the nostalgia, or whatever else it is that keeps him here. A few more moments and he will leave you in peace.

"Alistair." Again, he sounds like he is spitting.

You blink at him, silently.

"Alistair." He repeats and you blindly wonder if he's fallen on his head. "Not 'your majesty'" his voice rises in pitch in what you assume must be an attempt to mimic your own tone. "My name is Alistair."

"I am aware of that, yes." You pray he did not hear the catch in your voice.

He stares at you for a long moment and it takes every ounce of discipline you possess to keep from fidgeting nervously. Your chin is still held high, but you can feel a traitorous trembling to your lower lip and you cling desperately to the illusion that he has not seen it.

Unexpectedly, he backs off to sit unceremoniously on the edge of your bed. He is looking down at the floor and when he speaks, it is so softly that you almost do not catch it, for your heart is pounding in your ears once again.

"I did not mean for you to hate me."

He sounds like a lost child, and your hands snake around your midsection, unbidden.

"I don't." You speak after a long silence, all of the coldness gone and your voice almost a resigned sigh. Your fingers grip at the fabric of your dress and suddenly standing up feels like the most difficult task you have ever endured.

He's looking at you again and even with the absence of armor and weapons and campfire smells you feel like you've been transported back to that time. The distance between you is only a few feet but he is looking at you like you are a million miles away and you feel like he is even more lost to you than before.

"I miss you."

The statement is simple, but it ties you up inside.

_If you miss me so much, you shouldn't have left. You should have waited, we would have been stronger together!_ The protests stop short of your tongue, though, and you think of Morrigan, of your weakness, and you know that is not true. If he had not left you, had not torn your heart in two, you never would have been able to go through with it and one of you would have died.

_Love me forever, yet leave me too soon? Or leave me forever so love can fall apart?_

He's still looking at you from his seat on your bed and you're not sure how much time has passed since he spoke those words. Moments? Hours?

You open your mouth to reply, but close it just as slowly. What can you say to that?

_I miss you too? I still love you? Please change things?_

Nothing will change, however, and you're left standing there with nothing to say because he is still The King and you both have the taint in your veins and however much it hurts you to admit it, he had been right that day. His future, Ferelden, an heir... it was all so much more important than whatever residual emotion you feel for each other.

So instead you just stare at him, and he drops his head.

You cast your own eyes to the floor as well, picking up the pieces of your noble facade in order to bid him farewell once more.

But then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest and he is crushing his mouth to yours with all the passion left in the world.

And you think you might drown.


	5. BURY

He's kissing you and suddenly he's not The King and you're just a lost girl trying to save the world from Darkspawn. He's kissing you and you're back at camp, fumbling around in the tent with curiosity. He's kissing you and you're anywhere other than a guest room in the Royal Palace. _His_ Royal Palace.

And it's never been like this before, this desperate passion that's pulling at you in every way, good bad and in between. Your hands cling to his shoulders and some far part of your mind that exists outside of _this_ and _him_ and _yes_ thinks that his shoulders are just the same as they always were.

But then his lips are parting and his tongue is touching yours and you can't even think at all except to wonder when he got this good at kissing you? You're in a fancy dress and he's The King but none of that matters while his mouth is on yours and you think you might die if you let go.

It happens, though. He slows, his hands still tight against your back, but he is pulling away, kissing you almost gently one last time and you keep your eyes closed, scared to open them and have this be over.

He isn't letting you go though, so you stand in his arms, leaning against his chest and you think that maybe his heartbeat is almost as loud as yours is. It feels safe and terrifying all at once and there's a war going on inside you as to whether you want this to be a dream or not. Your hands have slid down to rest on his chest, your face against his neck and he is still holding you as though it's all he can do.

So you decide.

You meet his eyes before you pull away, hoping he won't withdraw. He studies you in silence as you step back from his arms and for once his eyes are unreadable.

"Alistair." His name, at last. To your own ears, your voice sounds more like yourself than it has in half a decade.

"That's me." He's trying to joke, to tease, to be as light as things had been once and your lips twitch into a smile for a brief moment.

You're thinking of what to say to both prolong this beautiful moment and break the tentative truce before it ruins reality again, but he beats you to it.

"I want to say things. To you."

You nod before you realize, and he's taking your hand in his own.

He leads you to the bed and your throat feels heavy and you think you're not quite ready to entertain _those_ impulses right now, but he just indicates for you to sit. So you do, sweeping your skirts under you and looking at him curiously. You can feel the shields coming back into place, the guards coming up and you're not sure what he could possibly want to say.

He rakes a hand through his hair and you think back to his first nervous suggestion that you spend the night together. He seems just as unsure now, just as terrified but determined to press on and your heart wrenches in your chest at the possibility of what he might say.

"I'm sorry, you know." He's almost stammering and The King slips further from him with every babbled word. "But things were so... and you, and Arl Eamon and everyone was looking to me and everything I'd never wanted was suddenly thrust upon me and the only thing I could think of was all these decisions and responsibilities and somehow _that_ was the first one that came to mind." He stops then, looking at you expectantly and it takes you a few moments to comprehend his words.

_Oh._

You're at a loss for words again. Funny, how he seems so easily able to do that now.

His hand is in his hair again and he seems almost scared to look at you as he continues. "Thing is, though, it's not that I was _wrong_..." your heart lurches painfully. "I mean, I was, in doing it like that, but I wasn't wrong about the other stuff. The taint and babies and... stuff." He trails off lamely and all you can do is nod.

But then he's on his knees in front of you and his hands are gripping yours so tightly that it almost hurts.

"I don't care. It doesn't matter."

_It does. It does. It really does._

He's kissing you again, and this time you pull him closer.

There's no more desperation, just slow kisses that you think might melt you if they continue. And when did you lie down, anyway? Had he always felt so large, above you? But his weight is pressing you into the bed and it feels so perfect and familiar and you desperately try to tell yourself it's because you haven't done this with anyone else and not because he is all you ever wanted.

The fabric under your hands seems more offensive somehow, as if its finery is mocking you and all you can think is to get it off. He releases you for only the briefest of moments to toss his shirt somewhere into the darkness of the room and your hands splay across the muscles of his back.

It's so familiar and you're both a little hesitant and you wonder if you've tripped back to the first time, when both of your inexperience manifested in awkward laughter and shaking limbs. His hands are too sure, though. Too still as they peel away your dress and too practiced as they touch you. No, this is not like that first time and neither of you are virgins and he's murmuring against your collarbone like a mantra.

"Only you. Always you."

You want to call him on his lies, then, as anger begins to pool inside because you know that is not true. You have only been with him, yet he has been with Morrigan. And Maker only knows how many since... something like a cry threatens to escape your throat so you busy yourself removing the rest of his clothes and ignoring the pain that's spreading inside you.

He doesn't seem to notice, but his expression is grim and desperate as he rolls himself atop you once more and your nails dig into his forearms as he enters you.

Alistair's forehead is pressed to your own and it hurts a little, the pressure he is applying there. He's filling you slowly and every inch makes you feel closer and further from him all at once. At last, his hips settle against yours and he lifts his head back to meet your eyes.

There is a question there, silently wondering if this is okay and you have to bite back a laugh at the fact he seems to think you could possibly go back _now._

You do not answer him with your gaze, or your words, merely bring your knees up to cradle his legs and encourage his thrusts. His head drops to your shoulder and his weight is pressed upon you and you are so much _closer_ than you ever were inside the tent. He is moving within you and pressure is building inside and you think he really does mean to bury himself in your body.

You think you might let him.

It is both quicker than you remember and slower than it's ever been as you follow each other off the edge and afterwards, he pulls you against his chest and your fist rests over his heart and you feel strangely numb.

Your last thought before exhaustion overcomes you is that someone will probably take notice that The King is not in his bedchamber.

You don't know what to make of that.


	6. SHIELD

When you wake, you are convinced you will be alone. Your senses are muddled by sleep but you are cogent enough to know you cannot feel him beneath you any longer. The sheets are soft and you're wrapped in a delicious feeling of cold and warm all at once, but in the best possible way. You keep your eyes closed and push yourself further down into the blanket. If you don't open your eyes, you can pretend he is still there...

From nearby, you hear him chuckling.

With a furrowed brow you lift your groggy head from the pillow and look around. He's not in the bed, that was accurate, but you find him just feet away, looking at you with a bemused expression. He's holding his discarded shirt in his hands and his pants are loose around his hips and you have to blink to make sure you're not dreaming because he's looking at you with such undisguised emotion that your stomach is twisting up all over again.

So you fall back down to the pillow, pulling the blanket over your head and try to focus on breathing steadily.

He's still laughing at you but you can't really hear it and impossibly, you think the blankets might smell like campfire and forest and everything you're not supposed to think of anymore. He shouldn't be doing this to you, laughing and joking and touching you in ways that make you... Nothing has _changed_ and it's overwhelming you as your legs involuntarily curl up into the fetal position.

The bed shifts as he sits down beside you, mirth in his voice as he rests a hand on your blanketed shoulder. "The scary morning-monster is gone." He insists and your throat tightens up because he doesn't understand what's going on.

It takes a few moments, but you manage to extricate yourself from the safety of the linens, clutching them to your chest for modesty as you sit up, awkwardly avoiding his gaze.

He doesn't seem to notice your discomfort though, as he leans in to lazily kiss the corner of your mouth. Your immediate tensing and the way your knuckles go white as you grip at the blanket seems to clue him in, though and he tilts his head to regard you with a puzzled expression.

You don't look at him as you fumble to climb out of the bed while turning the sheet into a makeshift dress around your body. Once you're safely a few feet away from him, you clear your throat softly.

"Alistair..."

He's apprehensive as he looks at you. "Okay, well, at least you're not calling me 'your majesty'..." He trails off.

"Last night-"

He cuts you off. "Was amazing? Reaffirmed your belief in The Maker? Right?" There's a desperate note to his voice that tugs at your heart and you hitch the blanket up higher around you, as though if you cover everything but the top of your head this will be easier, somehow.

"Last night was a bad idea." Your tone is quiet, but firm and you half-pray that he will merely nod and leave.

But he's shaking his head and starting towards you, hands reaching for you and you back up almost unconsciously.

He stops, then, looking like a wounded child. "Don't say that."

You sigh, wishing you were anywhere else in the world or maybe that he was anywhere else in the world or perhaps most of all that you weren't trying to have this conversation while clothed in nothing but the sheet upon which you'd spent last night in is arms.

"We can't revisit the past like that, it just complicates the future."

He's stopped a few feet from you, his hands looking larger than usual and out of place, as if he needs something to hold on to and you're suddenly very thankful for the way your fists are clenched in the sheet, keeping you from mimicking his position.

"But it's not the past." He protests, almost weakly. "It doesn't have to be."

"Yes it does." The force of your statement surprises even yourself, and you're not sure if you want him to hear your bitterness. "I can't do this again."

"Do what?" And he's looking at you all wounded, with genuine confusion etched on his features and you're torn between a desire to slap the expression off his face and the compulsion to drop the sheet and launch yourself into his arms yet again.

"I can't..." You take a breath, steadying your voice because this isn't something you can afford to back down on. "I can't be hurt by you again." And you know it's mean but the vindictive part inside of you is screaming that he was meaner and you don't really have much else to say to _that_ argument.

He's staring at you with this ridiculous shocked expression and you briefly wonder if maybe he's actually so stupid as to not know what he'd done to you. That thought doesn't get you very far, however, because he's on his knees in front of you again and you just wish he'd stop doing that because it makes you think of submission and fealty and that the _King_ of Ferelden shouldn't be kneeling to anyone, let alone his ex-lover.

But he's not saying anything and you're getting uncomfortable and you wish you could don your armor without letting go of the sheet that's slowly becoming your shield.

The silence lasts for so long that you're trying to think of something to say to just make him move and react and do something other than kneel on the floor in front of you.

After what feels like forever, he lifts his head and meets your eyes. "Tell me how to fix this?" It's like you're transported back to Lothering and for some reason you're being forced to take the lead and Morrigan is harassing him about deferring leadership and Leliana is laughing and you're trying to figure out where to go next because nobody else will just _help_ you figure things out and why is this even your jurisdiction anyway and... and... and what are you supposed to say to that?

You have this ridiculous vision of the landsmeet and think you should have just told all the court he was marrying you and taken the decision out of his hands because he makes such _terrible_ ones when you're not there to guide him.

Briefly, you entertain the idea of just grabbing him and throwing yourself at him and taking him to bed one more time because you did that last night and it put off all the discussions you didn't want to have and maybe Zevran was onto something with all his lurid comments and views on love...

You're not sure if you're even making sense to yourself anymore, so all you say is "I need time."

And he's clinging to that, nodding earnestly and rising to his feet. "Time. Of course. Exactly. Perfect. Excellent."Why is he talking in synonyms? "You can have time, absolutely." His desperate look is back and he stops short of reaching for you, this time. "This is a big decision, and we'd need to figure out what to do about the Wardens and-"

You're not sure what he's going on about and your grip on the sheet is so tight you think it might start ripping, but he's looking at you expectantly and he must have asked a question.

"What?" You wonder why your voice sounds so faint.

"'I'm asking you to let me fix what I screwed up. I want you to marry me."

And then everything stops.


	7. FORCE

For the first few months after the Archdemon was defeated, you had dreamt of this. A dozen scenarios, a dozen different words, a dozen declarations of love and in each and every one of them he told you three things: He told you he was wrong to leave you. He told you he loved you. He told you he wanted you to be his wife.

Yet, when he stands in front of you proclaiming those same three things, you search blindly in your mind to remember how you had responded in your dreams. Some variation of tears, of kisses, of slowly making love to him for hours but you struggle to remember if you'd ever actually answered the question.

But you can't recall.

Through all the confusion and hurt and heart-wrenching pain you'd felt after the landsmeet, you don't know what you would have answered, at the time.

And now, with five years of heartbreak and pain, and even a tentative sort of recovery behind you... it's not any easier.

He must recognize the terror in your eyes because he pulls himself to his feet and although he's grinning at you like a nervous fool, he backs away. "But time you shall have, dear lady." And you're not even sure if you blink before he's gone, slipping from your room and leaving you there, clutching a sheet and gaping at the door.

Two days later, and you're not sure your shocked expression has entirely left your face. You're going through the motions of being a proper Grey Warden, meetings, discussions, planning... you're trying to be a good houseguest for Teagan, but an odd sort of distraction has infused itself into your senses, leaving you just a hair off in reaction, perception... it's occurring to you on a regular basis that you're lucky the days of being ambushed whenever you try to go anywhere are long behind you.

You've been avoiding the palace.

Teagan does not mention it, surely he has written off your behaviour as a reaction to the dance, the banquet... you haven't told him about afterwards. He's patient and kind and seems genuinely interested in making sure you have a good stay in Denerim, and whatever grounding you've found is directly a result of that.

The morning of the third day since _it_ happened, you decide to say it out loud.

"The King asked me to marry him." You break silence over breakfast, not looking at Teagan as you speak. You use his title, for you fear that calling him Alsitair might muddle the situation too further, and everything is as confusing enough as it is without accidentally forgetting exactly _who_ he is, now.

"Yes, I had rather thought he might."

If the proposal itself had not thrown you off enough, Teagan's utter lack of surprise and conversational tone throws another wrench into your carefully constructed world. You must be staring at him like he's announced his desire to raise baby Hurlock's because he chuckles and smiles indulgently. "Anyone who was at that banquet suspects it, I'd imagine."

"Pardon me?" To your own ears, your voice sounds more than a little faint, high-pitched and slightly affronted.

"When you danced" Teagan explains. "He was staring at you like you were the moon and stars and sun all at once. As though everything in his world only made sense when arranged around you."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Oh."

"I assumed from your hasty exit afterwards that you had noticed that. I thought the weight of it had been too much for you. My crossness with him was borne from the idea his unwanted affection was leaving you uncomfortable."

"What? No... I don't know..." You still feel faint.

Teagan's smile slips a little as he regards you. "While your affairs are not my place, I feel it is my duty as... your friend, dear lady, to make sure you have all of the information."

What information? Your brow furrows again, silently awaiting Teagan's explanation.

"His advisors... he has been on the throne for five years. That is a long time for a monarchy to be unstable. He has no heir, and it is my understanding he is... under quite a bit of pressure to rectify that."

Your shoulders sag at that, your breath coming out slowly. "Oh." You repeat, your gaze falling resolutely to your hands where they rest in your lap.

You can hear the concern in Teagan's voice. "I don't mean to hurt you. whatever may have transpired between you the other night, you should not forget what happened five years ago. I would not want... would not want his inability to handle his throne to cause you harm."

_Again._

The word is unspoken, but it hangs in the air between you. Teagan is worried that Alistair's intentions are not as pure as they could be.

What terrifies you most is that he may be right.

You excuse yourself quickly, leaving a stricken-looking Teagan behind as you retreat to your room. There's fear forming in the pit of your stomach and questions nagging at your brain.

_Why now? Why didn't he seek me out and ask me before now? Why did he wait until I came to Denerim? If he's missed me so badly, why did he not come after me? Why did it take five years? Why?_

Too many questions, too much uncertainty and your head is spinning. You feel nauseated and nervous and numb all at once and it's an odd sensation, like everything in your world is suddenly cracking apart and waiting for you to put it back into place.

Teagan's right, you know this. You know that one night, one declaration, one question hanging in the air is not enough.

Wishing is not going to change that.

Another three days has gone by, and you are finally returning to the Palace. After calming down, you had spoken with Teagan at length and the conversation had been more cathartic than you'd like to admit. More candid, as well. It was easy to talk to him, easy to bear your heart and soul and try to make sense of the things that were muddled. He has apologized, rather profusely at that, not wanting to cause you distress and your repeated statement that he only said things you needed to hear seem to be falling on deaf ears.

Still, for all his apologies, Teagan makes a good sounding board.

It is with your splintmail in place and your voice steady that you request an audience with _The King_. It is without any hint of faltering that you inform him of your need to speak privately. And it is without any trace of regret in your voice that you tell him no.

But you cannot look at his eyes.


	8. TIDE

Three weeks since you left Denerim to return to Amaranthine. Three weeks since you'd left the palace with your head held high. Three weeks and you feel like things are finally starting to heal. It's not a large shift, the paradigm of your life has remained in place, but the cracks in your heart are slowly, surely, starting to close in.

Alistair (it is somehow easier to use his name, now) had not taken your rejection well, the expression on his face had mirrored the one you wrote five years prior, and somehow that made it easier to keep your resolve. You'd calmly, firmly, told him you would not marry him. You'd told him it was not a good decision for Ferelden, that he was right, the country needed an heir that you could not provide.

And you had told him it was time to close the door on your relationship.

One final knife twist, digging deep into your own core even though you were the one wielding the weapon, and you had left without giving him a chance to respond. You were outside of the city gates before you'd had a chance to take another breath, it had felt like.

Each step on the journey back (never home, not here) to Amaranthine had come more easily than the one before it. It was as though you were finally shedding the baggage of your broken heart and finally preparing to move on in your life.

The freedom was terrifying.

Nights are still difficult. You wake up in a sweat, clinging to pillows to keep the tears away and why did all sheets seem so offensive to you now? But the dreams dissipate, fade away with the night and you leave them behind as you go about your day.

You're smiling when you answer the knock at your study door. You're cheerful when you call for the entrance of whoever it is.

You're shocked when you realize it is him.

Angry as a thundercloud and looking for all the world like he just wants something to behead, Alistair pushes through the door of your study, all but slamming it behind him. You stare at him in shock as he plants himself across your desk, arms folded and looking down at you. "I don't accept your rejection."

And you want to laugh in his face because you have tried this line. You had tried to plead with him, tried to tell him that he was making a mistake... and he had told you there was nothing else to say. But this is not a campsite and he is blocking your only exit.

"I beg your pardon?" Your voice sounds shrill, haughty.

He's merely staring at you, the most confrontational you've ever seen him, arms folded and voice firm. "I don't accept your rejection." He repeats.

"That..." The shock of his appearance, of his force, has you flustered and it takes a moment to pull yourself back to snuff. "That it beside the point, it was my place to reject the offer."

"Based on what?" You're staring at him again, utterly confused and unsure what sort of answer he's looking for, so he continues. "Not a good decision for Ferelden? I disagree. I need heirs? Absolutely, let's get started making them. And if we can't, then we'll name a successor and make sure there's no commotion for the throne when I die. Give me an actual reason for saying no and I will go away and leave you be."

"Are you kidding me?" You stare at him, all the peace the last three weeks have brought you leaving your body and five years of pent up anger taking over. "You left me after I got you your crown!" You're yelling now, raging at him with everything you haven't yelled about before. "I supported you, and I fought for you, and you _left me_!" He opens his mouth to speak, but you're not done yet. Not now, not when it is all coming out in a rushing tide of words and anger that you cannot control.

"For five years, I ghosted around with my heart breaking and you walk back in, say you're sorry, take me to bed and think that makes everything _okay_? Everything is _not_ okay, Alistair! I am not marrying you because you need an heir, I am not marrying you because you're lonely and you've twisted that into some sort of regret about our past and I'm not marrying you because you threw some pretty words at me and assumed that would make everything better!"

You're staring at him expectantly, hands on your desk and brows knitted and now it's his turn to be tied up inside. You feel tense to the point of bursting, every muscle in your body clinging to the anger and the pain that you just expelled towards him and he's not saying anything.

Itching for a fight, the silence is wearing on your nerves so you prompt him. "Are those good enough reasons, _your highness_?"

You mean the title to provoke him, to elicit some response other than staring at you blankly from the fury you had released.

When he speaks, it is slow, almost quiet, but not lacking in conviction. "Then marry me because I love you."

You exhale almost petulantly. Does he really think that is enough? He does not give you a chance to laugh bitterly in his face, however, for he continues talking in this frighteningly calm way you've never heard from him before.

"Teagan was not incorrect; my advisors are more than concerned that I need to secure my throne with an heir. This is nothing new. That particular topic has been thrown about since the day of my coronation. I do not propose to you because I want a child, I propose to you because I need one and the idea of having it with anyone other than you is unbearable to me. I'd rather die trying with you than succeed once with another woman and Maker condemn anyone who says that isn't good enough."

He's staring at you again, holding your gaze with a steady intensity you have never experienced from him before and you're starting to feel a little uneasy. Nerves and anger and resentment and pain battle within you like a maelstrom and you're so agitated you can't think straight.

"You have your sword?"

It's his turn to be taken aback, blinking at you for a moment before nodding wordlessly.

"Meet me in the courtyard in ten minutes. I can't think, so I'd rather fight."

It takes a moment, but he nods, seeming to understand the restless anger that has overtaken you. You need so badly to consider him the way he had been before, to take yourself back to a time and a place where all that mattered was making it through each day. You need so badly to consider him the way he had been before, to take yourself back to a time and a place where all that mattered was making it through each day.

To level the playing field.

Wordlessly he leaves to assemble and you find yourself buckling into your splintmail with vigour. You don't think on his words, you don't think on his declarations, you just grab your sword and head outside unsure if you want to kill him or beat some sense into his royal head.

Either one would do, really.


	9. PARRY

When you enter the courtyard, he is waiting for you.

His King's armor lies discarded at the feet of a particularly nervous looking royal guard and Alistair himself is adjusting the straps on a breastplate that he has clearly borrowed from a warden. There's a slight breeze in the air as you descend the steps into the courtyard and regard him across the area that will be your battlefield.

The sun is shining, despite the chill in the air and you nod to each other, a silent signal to begin.

And then it becomes a blur.

So lost in your movement, you barely stop to think. A quick turn, a dodge, an attack parried... The sound of steel on steel and you want to close your eyes and pretend you are down in The Deep Roads, fighting desperately to get to your goal. It's freeing, attacking him with everything in you and being met blow for blow. Through everything, for all his faults, he was truly a warrior.

One who is gaining the upper hand against you, even.

Low in your throat, you growl, pushing him away with your blade and circling again. You can see sweat glistening on his brow but nothing in his stance indicates the smallest tremble of effort. So graceful in a fight, and your lips curl slightly into a twisted smile of appreciation.

And you launch at him again.

Steadily, a crowd of onlookers is gathering. The head of Ferelden's Grey Wardens is fighting The King. Through the sounds of swords and steps and your own exertion you can hear the cheers. It must be quite a scene, the two oldest Grey Wardens in the country attacking each other in Amaranthine's courtyard, equally matched. Blow for blow. Each attack is parried, blocked, the same pattern repeating and you are locked in a stalemate, circling each other again.

But Maker, battle suits him. Strong and forceful and advancing on you, sword in hand. This fight seems to be exorcising him as much as it is you, for the ferocity is not something either of you had ever released on the occasions you sparred at camp. The lunges are not vicious, not intending to harm, but neither of you is holding back and you want to bubble over with laughter because this feels like the most honest conversation you've had since the day you met.

And there's a glint in his eyes that seems to agree.

By now, you've lost track of how long the fight has been going on and every bone in your body is aching. A brutal blow to the ribs, nearly hard enough to crack them, and you know that's going to leave quite a bruise.

So you grin and return the favour.

"You never should've left me!" You call out, between blows. Your face is spread with a smile and your eyes meet his with expectation.

"Never!" He returns, parrying your blow and darting out with his own. "You shouldn't have waited five years to come back"

"No!" And you think you might be laughing, even as you spin, dropping down to get the backs of his knees with the blunt side of your blade. "You shouldn't have let me stay away!"

He is too quick, dodging you expertly and trying to catch your surprise with another lunge. "Nope!" He grinning at you now and through the sweat, the grime of fighting and the harshness of the autumn afternoon sun he looks every bit the plucky warden you'd first met, sassing a mage. "You should marry me!"

The amused cheering from the assembled crowd dies so quickly that the next clash of your sword against his rings in your ears as though it is the loudest of them all.

You just grin at him, using the leverage from the blow to knock him to the ground and your voice rings out in the stunned silence. "We'll see!"

His sword has fallen a few feet beside him, and you kick it away from his reaching hand, staring triumphantly. Around you, the silence of the crowd has given way to the cheering of assembled wardens, whistles and catcalls that their leader bested the King!

"I'm a Grey Warden too, remember!" Alistair calls out from the ground. He's still sitting there, arm leaning against one propped up knee and looking only at you.

You're looking at him, with the sky above you and a crowd gathered around, and you think you might be able to say yes. It terrifies you, the idea of trusting him with your heart but the voice is there again, reminding you that he's had it for the last five years anyway. Maybe the time has come to stop pushing against the tide of feelings that overwhelms you at the thought of him and just let things be?

You've only just knocked him down scarce moments ago, but the lack of frantic movement allows the fatigue to settle into your body. Letting your sword join his on the ground, you extend your arm to help him to his feet. He's still grinning like a fool and you find it difficult to resist the compulsion to throw your arms around him and kiss for all the world to see, but for all the hope spreading in your chest, you know the conversation is not nearly finished.

"Hungry, your majesty?" This time, you do not wield his title to hurt him, merely to remind him of your audience because he's looking at you like he wants more than your kisses and you know the slightest touch and denying him will be impossible.

"Grey Wardens like their food. We shall have a feast tonight!" You call out, releasing his hand to turn your attention to the wardens who watch. "The King dines in our halls tonight, let's show him that Ferelden's Grey Wardens are the finest he could ask for!" Your tone is commanding, used to engage and inspire your wardens and the resulting cheer echoes through the courtyard.

"I'll see you in the dining hall in a few hours, My King." You bow slightly at the waist and for all your sore muscles and bruising ribs, you feel as though there is almost a bounce in your step as you walk away.

Without turning back, you know the grin is still on his face.

A hot bath and a well-prepared meal later and you're sitting at the long dining table listening to Alistair argue with one of your newer wardens about drinking prowess. Relaxed and full, you lean back in your seat and regard him with a smile. It's late in the night, most of the Wardens have retired, or been dragged out to sleep off their merriment and only a handful remain.

With a laugh, you stretch your arms in a yawn, ignoring Alistair's furrowed brow as you bid the hall goodnight and take your leave without so much as a word directly to him.

Arriving at the room, you discard your clothes in a heap, crawling into bed with just your skin. The day has been long, emotionally draining, but for once in a good way. Things are not settled, there are still conversations to have, but you feel confident that you are placing your heart in the right hands.

Your last thought as you drift off to sleep is that you hope his ever present royal guards refrain from following him into the bedroom. They would be in for quite a shock, you laugh softly into the pillow as your eyes flutter shut.

It is not your own bed you've climbed into, after all.


	10. FLOAT

In your dreams, you're floating. It's a strange sensation, weightlessly observing your world and somewhere below, you think you can see Alistair. Hardly the first time you've seen him in your dreams, but there is no clamp on your heart, squeezing painfully at the very thought of him. Instead, you float weightlessly and watch him, your heart strangely quiet. The newfound calmness almost overwhelming and you want to sigh, but within the dream you do not.

Faintly, you can hear someone murmuring. Voice low and, oh, you're being shaken softly?

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you force them open, adjusting to the darkness around you to find Alistair leaning over you with a quizzical expression.

So you close your eyes again, a smile playing at your lips as you hold the pillow closer. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself." He sounds a little unsure, but you can feel him sit down on the edge of the bed and go about removing his boots. You settle somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, content with his nearness, with the everyday sounds as he undresses for bed.

He pulls at the blankets to slip in beside you and the throaty, repeated "Hi" at your lack of attire pulls you a little more awake, as you slide closer to curl up against his side.

"I don't keep spare bedclothes in guest rooms." You state innocently, as if that explains perfectly well why he's come up to find you naked in his bed. But your hands are exploring his chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt, and there's hardly anything innocent about the way his breath hitches as your fingers pull at the rest of his clothes. He complies, lifting his hips and discarding the last that covered him.

"I won't leave my position with the Grey Wardens." You say conversationally even as you lift yourself up to straddle his thighs. "I've worked too hard here to abandon it, married or no."

"I wouldn't expect you to." His voice is low, his hands resting against your hips and he's looking up at you with the most hopeful expression.

You don't move, just hold his gaze with a smile. "I'd have to split my time between Denerim and Amaranthine, I'd imagine." You rest your hands on his stomach, biting back a grin as you feel his muscles tense under your touch.

"That's fine." His voice is a little bit strangled, but he's still staring with that same expression. As though his world only makes sense when arranged around you, Teagan had said, and staring at him now you can see what he meant. With so much pain and so many years between you, there's a voice inside you screaming that it shouldn't be this easy to trust him, to give yourself to him again.

But he's looking at you like that and you think you probably look the same. Your heart feels full to bursting, and maybe this is how it was supposed to be? If you'd married him right off you never would have accomplished everything with The Grey Wardens, he never would've figured out how to be a ruler. So wrapped up in each other, you would not have had time to grow into your own people in the post-Blight world.

In the darkness of the bedroom, yean lean over to kiss him. His hands slide up your sides, your shoulder, holding your face to his own and he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too." His hands feel like a vice against your face, holding you in place as he kisses you with more love and passion than you've ever experienced. It's a little like the first time, standing near the campfire, for his mouth is not skilled or practiced and you never want it to stop, kissing him back with all the earnestness you can muster.

When he releases you, his head drops back to the pillow, looking up at you with a wide grin. "This mean you're saying yes?"

You grin back. "Maybe." He opens his mouth to protest, but you shift your hips, taking him deep inside and he can only groan and close his eyes.

Joined like this, he fills you so completely that you want to break down into tears because it's been so long since you felt this complete. All the bad things, all the pain and the hurt, they don't matter anymore because you are together and you love each other and who cares what anyone else thinks? You'll figure out a plan for an heir later, you'll figure everything else out later, for now it's just the two of you. No Darkspawn, no Blight. No band of friends camping in the darkness on a mission that couldn't possibly succeed... Improbably, it did. You won't think of the cost, of the choices you had to make because now, in this moment, you are making love to the man who kept you sane through all the trials. The man who, impossibly, nursed your heart back to health after Arl Howe's betrayal stole your family, the man who made a difficult decision five years ago that even now you know what probably the right one but who cares? In times of peace, one can afford to be a little selfish.

It is slow and tender and your eyes stay locked on his as you move together. His hands touch you everywhere they can reach, and you don't think you've ever felt this warm, this happy, this loved. There is no desperation in your movement, no desperate push for release, each gasp and each sigh promises that this is only the beginning of your lives together. And when he does arch beneath you, fingers digging into your hips and his head rolling back, you follow him over the edge, mouth hot against his as you shudder out his name.

Dawn is already breaking when you finally drift towards sleep, exhausted and satisfied. His arm rests across your waist, holding you to his chest and you can feel his breathing somewhere behind your ear. You lace your fingers with his own, tugging gently to get his attention. "Alistair?"

"Mmm?" He's halfway to sleep and you smile at how young and innocent and non-Kingly he sounds.

"I'm saying yes."

In response, he tightens his arm around you and you can feel him press a kiss to your hair. "About time."

You laugh so easily now, held in his arms as your eyes close.

And in your dreams, he is floating with you.


	11. FUTURE

This time, you do not wake up alone. In the course of the night his arms have slipped from you and he lies on his back, snoring softly. You want to laugh, it's such a familiar sight to you, but at the same time, one you had not expected to ever see again. Smiling, you curl up against his side, idly stroking his chest.

It's strange to think that this will become the norm. That you will awaken beside him for many mornings to come... it was not even a possibility you had considered five years ago, when waking up at all every morning felt like a novelty. It had become almost ritual to count the heads at camp, making sure all of your companions were present.

Even the one in the far corner...

You bite back a frown. Morrigan. Resolutely, you had avoiding thinking of her.

The twisting in your stomach is back and you feel a little bit sick and somehow you're visualizing her in your place, curled naked beside Alistair and your entire body tenses. You had cried so deeply that night that it had felt as though your soul were cracking, somehow. No effort had been made to disguise your sobs, the selfish part of you hoping he would hear... he would come to you.

He had not.

Leliana had, as had Wynne. Both trying to comfort you without success, through no fault of their own. But if Alistair had heard your devastated weeping, he had given no indication the next morning. And so you had pressed on. Forced yourself to be strong. Faced the hardest trial of your own personal gauntlet and persevered, for better or for worse.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed to refrain from throwing yourself into his arms the moment the Archdemon was slain. He had looked at you, with such relief and exhaustion and for a moment you had been convinced he was going to take it back, going to take you back... But he had merely smiled at you in the saddest way, and turned to tend to Oghren's injuries.

He shifts, pulling you back to the present and you can feel him blinking towards wakefulness.

And he can feel your tensed muscles.

"You're not allowed to reconsider." His voice, still thick with sleep, does not sound very sure.

"I'm not." You murmur quietly, kissing his shoulder lightly. "I'm just entertaining unhappy chains of thought."

You can tell he's frowning, even as his arms work their way around you and hold you close to his chest. "Don't do that." He admonishes. "Only happy thought-chains. Joyful ones, that bring cheese and toys to all the land."

You smile briefly, but the frown returns to your features almost instantly.

"What is it?" He still sounds vaguely panicked.

You sigh, knowing this would not be an easy topic to broach, yet knowing it was necessary. "I want to know..." You swallow, your voice feeling as small and hoarse as it had the night of the banquet when you'd found him in your room. "There has been no one else but you, Alistair." You hope your meaning is obvious.

He clears his throat, shifting slightly and for a moment your heart drops. "Other than..." he seems to be choosing his words carefully. "Other than disgusting blood magic rituals, it's only been you."

Somehow, this doesn't lessen the knot in your shoulders.

He can tell, though, and when did he become so attuned to you? "It was horrible, you know." His tone is conversational and he's stroking your back softly. "All I wanted was to go to you instead. Well, truthfully, to go anywhere that didn't involve Morrigan climbing on top of me in her unmentionables. I'm pretty sure the only thing that kept me from passing out in fear was remembering that your Dog had made chew toys out of basically everything she owned." He clears his throat again, slightly more serious. "My part in the entire thing was very... uninvolved. I just shut me eyes as tight as I could and imagined anything else. There was nothing sexy or romantic about it." He sounds vaguely offended at the thought.

Your breath comes out in a slow stream, you hadn't realized you'd been so on edge. And he laughs at you, still rubbing your back. "I never wanted anyone but you. And I won't have anyone else, for the rest of my life."

You laugh, already relaxing into his arms. "Is that your kingly decree?"

"Depends, I'll have to run it by my queen first."

Your heart soars to hear him say that. His Queen. Offhand, you think your mother would have been absolutely delighted to have married her daughter off to the King. It makes you smile, thinking of your parents attending the wedding... and, oh, you'll have to write Fergus to ensure he attends! And all of your friends, of course.

Leliana would likely be delighted at the prospect.

And in this moment you resolve that thoughts of Morrigan will leave your head forever, the past could not be changed now. You had a future to look forward to, a future with Alistair.

The last five years had been so much harder than you'd ever admit, but you can't help but think they were worth it, for this moment: settled comfortably in the arms of your beloved, ready to face the rest of your lives together.

He kissing the top of your head and you close your eyes, cuddling yourself impossibly closer. Getting up to face the day could wait, you'd rather stay right here for just a little longer.

Forever, really.


	12. EPILOGUE

You are married less than a month later.

It is a lavish affair, befitting the King of Ferelden, and for as much as the pomp and ceremony of it all make you cringe, the grin you wear on your face does not falter the entire day. And now, he twirls you around the same banquet hall in front of the court and you laugh in his arms.

Taking a break from the revelry, your eyes meet Teagan's across the room. He smiles to you, raising his glass in a show of support and you mouth the words "Thank-you."

Hopefully, your meaning is understood. Without him, without his support and his honesty, you don't think you would have ever been able to reach peace within yourself. And without that peace, being with Alistair would have been impossible.

Idly, you think someday you should probably tell your husband of the part Teagan played...

Somehow, your grin widens.

Your Husband. Your King. Your Fellow Grey Warden. Your companion in nightmares, your rose-rescuing comrade in arms.

Your Alistair.

And in turn, you are his. Irrevocably, endlessly his.

Darkspawn take anyone who dares disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And we're done! Just a couple of quick notes. I want to thank Bethany and Teija for nourishing my ABSOLUTE RAGE after my first landsmeet, since it turned into this fic. And because they essentially beta'd every chapter. Also a huge thanks to all the supportive reviewers, ensuring this didn't turn into an abandoned WIP. And thanks for indulging my crazy need to write this in second person, present tense and avoid naming or describing the PC's appearance in any way. So really, I hope this was cathartic for everyone who got their Cousland's dumped after The Landsmeet. You've all been super sweet!
> 
> Completed: 12/20/2009

**Author's Note:**

> Dec 10, 2009


End file.
